From Your True Lover

We pretend to love the sun,
but the thunder and the rain stir our souls.
We keep it secret, just a whisper.

But the lightning and the water make us feel clean.

Like ghosts, free, in the dark,
for once unafraid of the shadows.

We love rainstorms at night,
purging and fresh,
glorious and beautiful.
Full of life, cascading redemption.

Droplets so frersh they break through the skin,
deep slumbering rumbles of satisfaction,
streaks of blistering light like new thoughts, strokes of genius.

And when the water trickles away,
swallowed,
and the sun defiles what was fresh,
and burns the blue and black and green,
it is all like an affair in the night,
an unexpected, tremulous, quivering, sensual visit
from your true lover.

Rhys Laverty